Toothache, Deception, and Nightmares
by Vanya Heart
Summary: The dentist is an evil, lowly, disgusting being that loves to cause pain, torment, and invade people's mouths without permission! At least, in France's mind he is, but England still sees fit to trick him into going there to get his cavity 'fixed'. One-shot.


**Toothache, Deception, and Nightmares**

The room is bleached white and colorless, except for the one hopeless motivational poster that hangs discarded in the corner. My eyes flicker towards it every now again, as if I'm trying to draw strength from the sight of it, but looking upon it gives me no feelings of courage or love. My face feels swollen on the left side, yet still I thrash and scream. The nameless, faceless, grinning shadows around me shove their fingers into my mouth, grip my hands and keep me pinned into the ashen white chair I am leaned back in, whispering deceitful words into my ear. I try to block them out, but it is difficult, and I use my remaining strength to snap at their fingers. Sighing, the largest one reaches onto a silver tray beside him, and withdraws a translucent, blue needle. One of them hold my head by back my hair, while two others force my jaw open. The largest one leans in, leering down at me wickedly, and slowly, slowly, pushes the needle into my mouth and penetrates the flesh right beneath my tooth, pumping it full of Novocaine. I wail and shriek like a mad-man.

"God damn it, Francis, it's only the dentist, you bloody wuss!" England stands aside from the rest, a light amongst the shadows, although he doesn't seem all that pleased with me. "Stop thrashing about and hold still!" He snaps, irritated. If I could move my hand I would flip him the bird right now; I _know _he must only be here to see me in pain.

Because of this lovely (jerk-off) Englishman, I was not even able to do a thing to my hair this morning, thus I look like shit. The blonde strands, that would normally flow down to my shoulders like a fountain of sweet honey (no, I'm not being narcissistic) are currently sticking around at the top in a mess. There's a _terrible _looking little curly appendage – it sort of reminds me of America's, or Canada's – that's poking straight up, and the rest is swept all around in a great rats nest, and sticking damply to my head. It's a disaster!

To make matters even _worse_, the bastard took me to the dentist.

Everyone at the world meeting last month _knew _I had something wrong with my teeth; I made sure they knew by spending the whole time whining and complaining about my mouth hurting. Still, I didn't think anyone would act upon it – no one would care enough to try to help me, France, I'm the least popular among them all and they know it! Thus, whenever England came to my house about a month later, and said he was going to 'stay the night', I figured he had just come to his senses about my irresistible beauty (I'm not insecure!). I soon found out he was a big, fat, lying little...what's the word he likes to use? Wanker. Yes. He's a wanker. Anyways, that little wanker first demanded a guest bedroom (no surprise) and then, about three in the morning, he burst into my room and announces he is going to take me on a date.

It wasn't that I wanted to go on a date with him! That's not why I followed him to the car, in my pajamas, with my hair looking like the rear end of a goat, and my eyes surrounded by dark circles! I went because, I figured, he was lying, and...and he wanted to make a fool out of me, but I'd make a fool out of him by making myself look like a dolt and then... I'd shame him, that's right! Yes. (Besides, don't judge, I was still half-asleep and didn't know what I was doing, I assure you!)

Anyhow, I thought he was trying to act romantic when he told me to close my eyes so he could lead me into the 'restaurant'. Don't ask why I listened and closed my eyes (again, I was still tired!) but when I opened them, I was locked in a medium-sized, snow-white room, surrounded by a whole parade of _British _nurses, and one evil-looking _British_ dentist. I didn't even have time to panic before they forced me into a chair and began molesting every inch of my mouth without my consent (bastards), and that is how I am where I am now.

I'm terrified of the dentist. "NON! NON! NON! NON!" I'm yelling, or, attempting to yell, at the top of my lungs. It's sort of hard to yell when half of your face is numbed with anesthetic, and being held open by angry-looking nurses. I try to kick at them with my legs, as they are not holding those, but England walks over (no surprise) and holds them down himself. "Youwr ahn ath holl." I spit, glowering down at him. The only reason I know he heard me is because he sighs, but other than that, his expression does not change.

"Mister Bonnefoy," One of the nurses says to me. I don't want to listen, and try to close my teeth around her finger (it doesn't work, sadly, as there's too many of them). Offering me a smile, she continues to say, "The dentist is going to drill into your tooth now. We've already given you anesthetic, so it won't hurt, but you've got to hold still for us, alright."

_Drill into my tooth? _I think my eyes are going to pop out of my head (if they do, I hope they roll down my chest and hit England square in the face). I shake my head rapidly: _no, woman, I do not want my tooth drilled! _She doesn't seem to catch what I'm trying to convey to her, and I feel the nurse behind me (the man who is sadistically gripping my poor hair) pat me lightly on the head. I fluster; this is just demeaning. It's hard for me to move my mouth now at all, and I barely feel anything when one of them starts stuffing cotton balls into it. Soon after that, a tube is inserted into my mouth, and then I see the shadowy, purely evil form of the dentist looming over me, and coming towards my face with a sharp-looking, whirring instrument.

The moment I feel the pressure of that drill hit my back molar, I go completely limp. I give up. There's no way for me to escape now, I can feel it, and, once again, I am going to be _invaded _without my consent. It hurts – it always hurts – but this time it hurts more mentally than physically. In fact, I don't feel any actual pain, just the vibrating of my jaw, but inside my head, I'm remembering other things, and _that_ is what hurts. I did not give my permission for this. I did not say they could do this. I bet England is laughing at me...I bet he likes this a lot! He's probably down there at my legs, staring up at me with that awful grin of his, and a sadistic look in his eyes! But, wait...I don't feel restrained at my legs any longer.

Trying to ignore the buzzing of the drill, I tentatively move my legs. There's nothing holding them down. A whine escapes my throat; it's not one of longing, of course not, I just would rather be held down and tortured by someone I know like jerk England that these strange, human people.

I really did try not to cry, but by the time the dentist pulls his hand away from me, I realize there is water running down my cheeks. _Shameful. _I think absentmindedly, shivering when something cold and foreign touches my mouth. They're doing other things in there now – and I don't know what – and it makes me begin to struggle again. Fear is giving me adrenaline, and I fancy, if I really, _really_ wanted to, I could probably break free of all of these humans...and slaughter them all. However, there's no point in doing that now. They've already finished drilling into me, what could be worse than that? _Senseless death, that's what_.

"Almost done." Someone says in my ear. I don't care who, and I close my eyes to the noise, feeling like a prey animal. _Is this how mice feel, when they fall beneath the claws of a cat? _My eyes shut tighter at the notion. I wish I could pass out.

Something icy is dabbed onto my tooth, and I feel the cotton being jerked out of my mouth. A quiet gasp comes out of me, and turns my breathing unsteady; I can feel my chest rising and falling raggedly beneath the navy silk pajama top I have on. Suddenly, I am released. "All done!" I can hear the dentist chip merrily, yet I feel no glee, and just lay there on my back with my eyes closed and salty tears gushing out of them. _Like a child, like a child... _My mind hisses insultingly, and I wince away from memories that I've tried so hard to forget.

"Frog, get up, we're going back home." There's no mistaking who _that _voice belongs to. No sooner has he spoken than I feel England's soft hands (why I am complimenting his hands at a time like this I have no idea. I'm just a nice person.) shaking my arm lightly. "Get _up_." He demands again, and in response I loll my head to the side and let out a moan. I can feel him starting to get antsy now, and he punches me lightly in the rib cage. "Get up! If you don't get up, I'm going to go back home...and bake scones on all of your pretty clothes!"

There's threat in his tone, but more worry; _still_, I can't risk him ruining all my perfect clothes! Eyes snapping open, I give him a long, hard glare. "I hathe yew." I growl, still have difficulty speaking. It feels like the left side of my face is constantly twitching into a grin, when what I really want to do right now is curl up in a corner and cry the blue out of my eyes.

Surprisingly, he doesn't smile. He's not kind either. "Get off your ass." He snaps, grabbing me by the front of the shirt, and nearly gagging me to death as he hauls me to my feet. I'm unsteady when I stand, so he keeps a hold of the fabric for a while. His eyes are scouring me, and I automatically drop my gaze to the floor, trying to avoid the urge to sniff back my tears. "Did you _really _have to cry?" England asks with a sigh, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a pale handkerchief with embroidery depicting blooming red roses. "I mean, really," He continues to blabber on as he dabs the tears off of my cheeks and from beneath my eyes. "I _know_ how much the dentist scares you, so I even got them to give you an extra dose of anesthetic."

_An extra dose of that poison to make me weaker, I bet. _I think to myself, but voice nothing. Instead I cross my arms over my chest, and give England the most contemptuous look I can fathom. He ignores me, as always, and shoves the handkerchief back into his pocket, then proceeds to grasp me tightly around the wrist (much in the way that a parent would grab a hold of a misbehaving child...) and tug me through the now open, unlocked door. My eyes shut themselves to the devilish faces of the many people working here, and as we exit the place, I make sure to spit on the doorstep. England whacks me over the head for that one (stupid eyebrows).

The moon has already descended as we approach the car, and the sky is a pale grayish color that reminds me of concrete, with pasty clouds scattered throughout it. A long sigh comes out through my nostrils – I feel _defeated_, which is such an awful feeling – and I barely even slap at England as he pushes me into the passenger side of the car, then walks around and enters the driver's side himself. I cannot help glaring at him – I can never forgive him for this escapade!

Halfway home, he finally acknowledges my soul-killing glare, and he glances over at me with a sour expression. "Oh, _shut up_." He tells me blatantly. "You can be prissy _all_ you want, France, but you know no one else would have taken you to the stupid ass dentist!"

As if he could resolve everything by telling me something I already know (although, _maybe_ Canada might have...oh wait, I wouldn't have asked in the first place, seeing I DIDN'T WANT TO GO!). "Non!" Was all I grumble at him, turning away and staring out the window. The sun is slowly rising from behind the silver buildings, and casting dim orange rays over this colorless city I live in (ah, but when I am happy, it is _beautiful_ in my eyes).

We reach the house then, and England scrambles out of the car hurriedly, slamming the door behind him violently. Seeming flustered, for some odd reason, he walks around to my side and yanks open my door, holding it open to me in a gentlemanly way. "Out." He hisses. Not very gentlemanly.

For some reason...I am unable to move myself. It feels as if my heart has sunk into the bottom of my stomach, and is freezing there. _Maybe I'm going to break again, like I did during the revolution. _Wincing, I push those memories away. _So much senseless death. _But I can't stop my expression from twisting into a grimace of agony, and my eyebrows from knitting together with awful concern. Before I know it, my front teeth nip at my lower lip, and I feel tears come to my eyes again. _So much pain. _

"Well, what are you waiting for?" I hear England ask me sharply, but my body remains still. I'm not looking at him, but I think he is beginning to get a bit irritated with me (although, maybe he is...no, he couldn't possibly be _scared _for me). The former pushiness seems to leak out of his voice, and there's the sound of clothing rustling as he kneels slightly before me, and tugs on the sleeve of my pajama shirt. "Come on!" He demands, but the fire is gone. "Come on...Francis...?"

I can no longer hear England, nor can I feel him tugging my clothing. I don't see him out of the corner of my eyes, either – I am in another place, inside my head. I know he's still there, and he's probably celebrating because he thinks that I am dead, but it doesn't matter (and besides, I cannot die from thinking such things). My mind whirrs back in time, and plays me back awful, traumatizing memories. Voices chime in my ears, laughing at me, taunting, and yelling at me; they make me quiver all over. My eyes shut and I see things even more clearly, and I jump sporadically from one time line to the next, and in no specific order. I smell the scent of blood, and hear the sound of the guillotine descending, and then, I am Gaul, no longer France, standing beside the Roman Empire. The next moment I am clashing swords with my dear Angleterre himself, and then I am screaming as I erupt into flames – only it is not me being burned, it is my sweet, sweet Jeanne.

The last memory is the worst, and it shakes me to my knees. I usually am able to block out this certain memory, but, I suppose, having my mouth so rudely _invaded_ caused me to be unable to do so. I was already on the topic of it; my black and overbearing secret. Outside of my mind, I hear my throat make an awfully pitiful sounding noise, and I think I am falling...but then I feel nothing once more, and I am back inside the memory. I hear the noises, surrounding me, and I cannot block them out; my hands are too busy clinging onto anything else they can grab a hold of to cover my ears. The taste in my mouth is a bitter, unappealing one that I know to well, and I roll my tongue about inside my mouth in attempt to rid myself of it. The sound of myself whimpering catches in my eyes – it sounds so strange, distant, and high pitched; young – and I tell myself to shut up as each stabbing pain hits me brutally, and I wish I would just die. _Send me to hell, just let me die!__ Why, why, why, P_ère?

When I am finally able to tear myself away from the depths of my mind, I'm back inside the house. _Well, **that** is a bit strange. _England must have carried me inside (cheeky bastard, trying to show off his strength) as I find myself now propped up on the couch. _Stupid eyebrows. _I want to break his little face into a billion tiny shards. I know my anger is aimed more towards the memories than England himself, but still, I'm pretty pissed at him. He _tricked _me. He took me to the dentist without my consent!

Speaking of the devil, England walks in then, and leans against the back of the couch, a tea cup in his hand (I will never know how he can make his tea so damned fast). He takes small, delicate sips out of it, and looks at me with his glimmering green eyes, as if he knows something.

He does.

Arthur is the only person I've ever confessed my secret to.

He doesn't ask about what I had a flashback of – he _knows_ – and I know him well enough to know he doesn't like to talk about it. I think that he figures it makes me sad...and it does, but I don't mind discussing my secret with him. If anyone else knew, I may be paranoid, but England would never tell anyone. I know _his _secret, and he wouldn't, no matter how much he hated me, tell on me.

"How's your face feeling?" He asks me quietly, leaning against the back of the couch more, as if to get closer to me (somehow, his hate vibe has diminished). His hand taps against the edge of the teacup, and I slightly wish that he was nearer to me, so I could hold it (just to bother him, you know).

Putting on a wide grin, to try and make it seem like I'm fine, I say, "Ith doesnth hurth." apparently still unable to speak like a normal human being. It was stupid of me to do anyways, because I _never _say an injury is okay, unless I'm lying. I'm a very good liar...but not when it comes to England.

Knowing my deceit, England heaves a sigh and sets his cup on the little table beside the couch, and then walks around and comes over to me, sitting down sight beside me, so close that his fingers brush against my own. My face feels a little hot, for some reason, so I don't move, hoping the feeling will go away. "I wasn't being spiteful." England mumbles in a blunt way, jabbing me in the side with his elbow. "You needed to get your tooth fixed, you dumb ass."

"Ie donth liek the dentift."

"I know."

We sit in silence after that, not looking at each other, and instead staring off towards the window. At the same time, we observe the sunlight creeping in. Still, after all that has occurred, I am exhausted. "Mh tiad." I slur incoherently, embarrassed by my speech. England doesn't answer me. He doesn't so much as look at me, so I take this as a 'I-don't-give-a-shit' sign. Well, it just happens, I no longer give a shit either. Before England can react I have fallen over and laid my head in his lap.

"W-what are you doing?" He squeaks in shock, face turning bright red (I assure you, out of the both of us, only _he _was blushing).

"Shleepin'." I mutter in reply. "Sut uph."

Even though my eyes are closed, and I'm slowly drifting off into hopefully-sweet dreams, I think I can feel him smiling (he's probably imagining something dirty). I can feel his stomach rise and fall as he breaths, and every time he moves, I can feel that too; it's almost as if we have become the same person. Not to sound sappy, but, I actually kind of like the little brat...maybe I _can _forgive him for tricking me yet. As my mind begins to go blank, I feel the familiar sensation of Eng-Arthur's hand upon my head, and soon, his lovely fingers running through my hair... I think he's humming a song for me too...

Maybe, for just a moment, I can forget our shared pain.

* * *

**I've had to go to the dentist three days in a row. I had 5 cavities that had to be drilled, and then I got some seal-ins or whatever...and THEN I got braces. ;-; My mouth hurts. **

**This is my angsty tribute to all the pain the god forsaken dentists, orthodontist, and their evil minions have graced me with. VuV  
**


End file.
